Unclip Pegasus' wings (and let him fly)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: He shifted, testing the give of the ropes, fingers scrabbling across the frayed ends, looking for an opening, something – anything to give him an advantage. Because at this point he figured it was pretty safe to say he was on his own. Rick and the others were still stuffed up in that damned train car. It was up to him to get himself out of this mess.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This little smutlet was inspired by the promotional pic for season five featuring Daryl gagged (and presumably tied up) – looking utterly and completely delish. Naturally, my brain just kind of went there. Set in early season five, while the gang is still locked down in Terminus. *****Big thank you to _carylstolemyheart_ on tumblr for being my sounding board for all things BDSM and for giving this a quick beta to ensure I was on track in terms of terms and descriptions. This is my first real foray into writing a bdsm fic, so I want to get things right.

**Warnings:** Adult language, adult content, sexual content, bondage, bdsm, light dom/sub undertones, rope tying, mild power play, use of handcuffs, allusions to 'head space' or 'subspace', use of a cloth gag, dub-con, vague references to child abuse: emotional and physical.

**Unclip Pegasus' wings (and let him fly)**

_**Chapter One**_

"Archer! Front of the line!"

"Daryl! No. Stop! Hey! Get your hands off him!"

"Front of the line or I start with the kid, your choice."

"Daryl, we'll think of something, don't-"

* * *

The bonds chafed around his wrists, too tight and scratchy. He was tied to the chair where they'd left him, trussed up like a god damned pig for slaughter. His indignity crowned by a thick metal chain that was attached to a beam that spanned clear across the length of the warehouse floor.

His good eye slitted as a slick of drool soaked through the corner of the gag. Reminding him of the moment they'd wrestled him into the room, roughing him up a bit as they pushed him into the chair and yanked his arms behind his back. The woman, Mary, the same one who'd welcomed them with open arms, had been there, waiting.

He'd snapped at her when she'd come at him with the gag, earning himself a cuff to the head and a vice grip by three of her cronies as she tied it, humming quietly to herself as a group of hangers-on talked in whispers near the door.

He tried not to think about why the room stank of stale sweat and fresh blood. Or why the metal ring looked like someone had taken a hack-saw to it. It had still been light out when they'd wrestled him off the train-car, and after they'd left him alone he'd had more than enough time to stare at it - to catalog the pitted edges and discolorations. There was only one thing that could have caused that. Someone had thrown themselves as far as the metal chain allowed again and again, notching the heavy metal in their desperation.

The slash across his eyebrow burned, an ill-regular staccato rhythm that off-set the throb of his shiner. He could still feel the ghost of her hand across his nape. Hell, it was all but burned into the back of his brain. He was familiar with cruelty, with how someone could wound worse with an insincere touch than a punch to the gut. And that woman had it down to a god damned science.

"Shame, you're a pretty one," she'd remarked, stepping back to view her handy work, gesturing to the douche on his left as he finished the knots and loops around his ankles.

"I don't like waste, you understand," she continued, fingers flighty and fretful as they picked at her gauzy sweater. "We're careful of that around here, respectful. We know where we come from, what we're _taking _from. But we all made the decision; we have that right you know, to survive."

"We gave you your choice, more than once. And you denied us. All of you. What you see here is called the consequences of your actions," she drawled, looking like she wanted to step forward again but didn't quite dare. He leaned back, as far back as his bindings would allow, just in case.

"We'll come for you at dawn, we prefer our meat fresh. Best to start early, we got a lot of mouths to feed," she remarked, patting the crony to his right on a large, hulking shoulder, motioning for the others to start heading out as she fixed him with an assessing look. Like she was figuring out which side of him she wanted to skin first.

He couldn't do anything but glare, but judging by the blood-shot whites of her eyes and the nervous tick on her right side, she wasn't one for second chances.

* * *

When the door slammed closed and the echoes finally finished chasing each other through the still, it wasn't long before he was forced to admit to himself that this just wasn't what he'd pictured for his first time.

He shifted, testing the give of the ropes, fingers scrabbling across the frayed ends, looking for an opening, something – anything to give him an advantage. Because at this point he figured it was pretty safe to say he was on his own. Rick and the others were still stuffed up in that damned train car. It was up to him to get himself out of this mess.

The ropes lashed around his waist itched, burning through the layers of his clothes. And just like he knew it would, his dick perked up, firming slightly between the cradle of his thighs as the ropes pulled at the exposed skin. He sighed, resigned.

_Christ, he was messed up._

He figured it was pretty safe to say he could blame Merle for this one. After all, it had been _his _faded old pornos he'd stumbled across under one of the floorboards in the shed a few weeks after Merle left home for good. He'd been on the right side of eighteen, wet-behind the ears and jonesing for something he wasn't quite sure he even needed, popping boners in the middle of the grocery store or halfway through makin' breakfast like they were going out of style.

The teenage years were a bitch like that.

He'd been too naive to realize the separation between the roles – the subtle differences between who was tied up and who was calling the shots. All he knew was that looking at those pictures, at page after page of writhing girls with flyaway curls grimacing around ball-gags – vulnerable yet safe - caused something in the back of his brain to just – _click_.

Something basic and animal had perked up its head, stretched itself out and _purred_.

He'd come harder than he _ever_ had right there on the floor of that shed, breathing in the smell of wood rot and summer heat as he spilled all over his fist. Dirty briefs shoved down to his knees, pants half off in his desperation – young and shameless to a fault.

If he was being straight, finding those old rags had been less of a coming of age experience, and more of a god damned _revelation_.

* * *

He tipped his head back, eyes to the ceiling, counting the shadowed corners as he followed the high-beams and rusting metal. The smell of burnt-out engine grease was still strong. This must have been where they'd fixed the broken equipment, back when the trains had still been running.

He tried to make a fist, to twist the rope across the inside of his palm so he could have something to hold onto but the cheap nylon didn't move an inch. His dick twitched, a warm persistent throb between his legs as it hardened against his thigh.

If he was being honest with himself, when he set aside the feelings of anger and fear, the uncertainty and the grade-A case of butt hurt still brewing in the back of his mind, it was actually grounding. Impossible as it seemed, the weight of the ropes seemed to center him in a way that bordered on not making a lick of sense, yet, at the same time, making all the sense in the world.

He thought he'd had his chance once, lucking into it when he stopped for a drink at some podunk, back country bar. He'd been on his way to Augusta, some errand for his dick-hole of a boss when he'd seen her, dirty blonde, leather-clad and perfect leaning up against the wall by the broken juke-box. She'd followed him to a booth, he'd bought her a drink and they'd hit it off.

Her hands had been in his hair, kneading and pulling as he'd inched down the corners of her jeans, pulling roughly at the sweat-soaked fabric to get to the prize inside. It was only when the fingers had dug in – twisting and sharp that he realized she was saying something.

"-wanna try something a little kinky?"

He'd given her the side-eye in the near dark, looking up from the trail of love-bites he'd been leaving – spanning from belly button to navel – to see her reach into her purse and pull out a pair of cuffs. They'd been plain police metal, highlighted by the siren red of her nails and he swore his heart had dropped right into the pit of his stomach.

The girl had watched him with a sly, hopeful little look until he nodded, throat dry.

He'd been so hard it'd been damn near painful.

He hadn't realized how bad he'd wanted it until she'd sat up against the headboard and held out her hands, eyes bright and excited, and he realized it was _her_ who wanted to get tied up and that she had no intention of returning the favor.

It wasn't until he was looming up on top of her, yanking her hands up over her head and fastening them to the headboard, trying his best to give her what she wanted, that he realized the whole thing was a hell of a lot of trust leveled on someone she didn't even fucking know.

He got off pretending he was in her place. Trying to make sense of the disappointment and confusion that rose up in the place of pleasure and satisfaction when she murmured sleepily, cuddling close like she needed the reassurance when he'd finally gotten over himself and fished the key out of the bottom of her god damned purse.

He'd simmered in the echoes of his dissatisfaction. Trying not to let it show as she fell asleep and he watched the marks, red and angry from where she'd pulled on the cuffs, gradually fade from her skin. The jealousy had been choking – enough to make him slip out of bed and take off before the sun made tracks across the sky.

He'd made a point of stopping to go through her pockets, fishing out the piece of napkin she'd written his number down on before they'd decided to take the party to the shitty motel just down the road. She was a nice girl, pretty and a good lay when it came down to it, but after everything was said and done, he didn't see much point of ever seeing her again.

He never went to that bar again.

* * *

He'd spent the next few years just clean avoiding it – years filled with bad porn and regret, trying to convince himself that he didn't want it – that he didn't need it. That it would never work out anyway and that he was kidding himself if, in a moment of weakness, he even so much as entertained the notion.

It'd gotten to the point that even when he figured he had the opportunity, taking some sweet, seemingly like-minded thing for a rough and tumble, he'd never asked. He'd given them what they wanted if they asked for it, but he never did any asking. He never admitted that he'd like nothing better than to turn a cheek and give it up, to feel the raspy burn of fresh nylon sliding across his skin, testing the give of the knots as they locked him down - fastening him in place before they even so much as leaned in for a kiss.

If someone ever asked, he wouldn't have been able to tell them why he wanted it. By all rights, considering the way he'd grown up, he knew he probably shouldn't have. Hell, he was sure he probably had a few screws loose for even_ thinking_ it. But that didn't change the fact that he did – more than anything.

It just wasn't something you grew out of, he supposed. Some things, for better or worse, just stuck with you. He'd never bothered to suss out the how's or why's. It'd just been this thirty some year itch he hadn't been able to shake.

He tried to make himself feel better by likening it to something that would always be good boner material. To something he'd spend the rest of his life wanting to try, but ultimately was too gun shy to put theory into practice. As the years passed he figured it was kinda like having a threesome.

Everything was well and good if you were the third – the flyer – the one with nothing to lose. But it turned out to be a whole lot less fun when you were the one who suddenly realized that sharing was not their style. Finding themselves stuck watching their woman go down on another dude and hating every minute of it – especially when she comes harder than she ever has in her entire life and you had absolutely shit all to do with it.

He might have had some experience with being the one on the first bit. He sure as hell remembered how it'd felt making for the front door, yanking on his pants just before the shit hit the fan and both them started screeching at one another.

Apparently he got in the habit of lying to himself over the years as well.

And with good reason. Finding something like that out about yourself was a hell of a thing, especially where he grew up. Rural Georgia wasn't exactly known for being understanding of other folk's predilections. At least not outside of the confines of their own bedrooms. So, like he said, he'd stayed quiet – mute. Figuring it wasn't worth the trouble. And even if it was, he'd never be able to find anyone worthwhile to do it with – someone he trusted – someone he was sure wouldn't have him regretting it come morning.

Because apparently there were some things in the world that were actually _worth _taking a chance on.

Point was, he'd never figured he'd end up actually_ getting_ what he wanted.

Well, the irony gods were sure laughing at him now.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter! Stay tuned, should be up in the next few days!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This little smutlet was inspired by the promotion pic for season five featuring Daryl gagged (and presumably tied up) – looking utterly and completely delish. And like maybe, my brain just kind of, well, went there. Set in early season five, while the gang is still locked down in Terminus. *****Big thank you to _carylstolemyheart_ on tumblr for being my sounding board for all things BDSM and for giving this a quick beta to ensure I was on track in terms of terms and descriptions. This is my first real foray into writing a bdsm fic, so I want to get things right.

**Warnings:** Adult language, adult content, sexual content, bondage, bdsm, light dom/sub undertones, rope tying, brief reference to a past threesome, mild power play, allusions to 'head space' or 'subspace', use of a cloth gag, dub-con, feeding, ice-play, sensation play, vague references to child abuse: emotional and physical.

**Unclip Pegasus' wings (and let him fly)**

_**Chapter Two**_

He stretched, arcing back as much as the bonds would allow, until his spine cracked and the small little twinge that had been bugging him for the better part of an hour abruptly eased. He couldn't deny the action wasn't two fold however. Enjoying the thrill that came part and parcel with the pull of the ropes as they pressed against his belly.

He'd never known he'd craved layers over muscles, that until now there were parts of his body that had never truly relaxed. He hadn't known – never even fathomed how _tightness_ could truly feel - that it could protect, as well as wound. Free in the same way as it confined.

It was better than he thought it would be - dangerously good in fact. It seemed fucked up to admit, to face the fact that even here, stuck in a cooling tank with nothing but his own thoughts and the knowledge that come sunrise he was going to be filleted and grilled to a fine char - he was all but _riding_ a slow building tide.

He figured _that_ was where any normal person would draw the line, where they would back off and check themselves into whatever 'feel good' therapy craze was the rage that week, go on a 'mind and body cleanse', whatever it was that rich city folk did when their hind brains became more trouble than they were worth.

He wondered what it said about him when he realized that the idea hardly even registered.

In fact, now that the freaks were gone, it felt oddly as though, if this were any other situation, this might have been the most relaxed he'd been in a long time. _Maybe ever._ It was hard to tell, you know, with the whole near-death cannibal thing lurking in the backdrop.

He let his head fall back, softening his grip on the gag as he forced a swallow. His lids slung low on their own accord – determined to soak it in while he could. The feeling was hard to describe. There was a certain fullness to the moment, a sense of peace edged with anticipation. The nearest point of reference he had was that place you could sometimes reach that was in between sleeping and waking. When your body was still, quiet - when you felt sleep-drunk but also strangely aware all at the same time. Where you couldn't help but feel a rush of off-centered contentment, pleased with the knowledge that everything was as it should be. When you were caught up in the grips of a lazy sort of euphoria as the world continued turning and you were caught up in its wake, floating, sinking, yet never reaching the bottom.

_It was perfect. Frightening. Addictive. And he never wanted it to stop._

* * *

With no noise from the outside it was like nothing else in the world existed. His head lolled, easy and languid as his cock pressed up against his zipper. The candle hissed, spluttering at the wick. The flame guttered dangerously, threatening to cast the room in darkness, before resuming its former brightness. He watched the wax bead and pool, spreading across the surface of the table a few feet from him.

It was the drifting between two entirely different head spaces that fucked it up – lessening the persistent buzz of pleasure. The clash between the part of him that was content and excited and the other, just as relevant part, that was horrified and angry.

They were playin' coy, he knew that well enough. They were aimin' to break him. To string him out until he gave it all up – whatever it was they actually wanted. God knows, he didn't have a clue. Because they _did _want something. When it all came down to it, what had happened before with Mary and the gag had been akin to a show. There was something else going on, something that merited being locked down, all but drowning under rope and chain, cooling his heels come sunrise.

He shook his head, snorting as best he could around the gag. Even if they were meaning to gank him and serve him to their next unsuspecting batch of strangers, they figured he had something they wanted – something they needed. Nothing else made sense. Otherwise, why the show and tell? Why the hog-tying and pseudo-torture number, spending half the night repenting for his sins or whatever?

Either way, it didn't matter. The joke was on them - in more ways than one, actually.

* * *

He didn't realize he was drifting until the building shifted, _crick-cricking _on its foundations as the sun-warped metal unkinked itself after a long day in the Georgian heat. Discomfort flooded through him, momentarily dampening the consistent thrum of arousal as his muscles flexed – tensing and releasing around the bonds.

_Sunrise._

It couldn't be too far off now. They'd be coming for him soon and nothing about his situation had changed. They'd taken his bow, his knife and he couldn't reach the small one hidden inside his belt buckle. He'd exhausted every avenue of escape a thousand times over and yet, it was like the reality of his situation still hadn't sunk in.

He wasn't going no'where.

To put it mildly, he was fucked.

He cocked his head, gumming idly at the corner of the gag as he remarked – however distantly – at his calm. It was like he was coasting on some crazy-ass high, level as shit and aware, but disassociated at the same time. Everything else – everything but the press of the ropes and the ache of teeth grinding into the gag seemed remarkably distant.

And perhaps that was the point. Maybe he should just take the hint, sit back and enjoy it.

_And really, why not?_

This whole clusterfuck had been a hole in one to start with, and if he was right about what was coming it wasn't like he was ever going to have another shot at experiencing this. Tomorrow was going to come whether he liked it or not, come what fuckin' may or whatever. At the end of the day he didn't want to go out with any regrets, none that he could help at any rate.

He was long overdue in letting his hind brain come out and play anyway.

* * *

The scene took shape gradually behind his swollen lids, highlighted by a dozen different shades of grey. The warm glow from the candle flickered, casting shadows as midnight came and went. The muscles in his arms flexed, popping and twisting as he memorized the pull – the harsh pinch of rope burn flooded across his skin – fever hot and alluring.

He wondered what that said about him, that he was caught up in the way the ropes pressed against his skin. That he craved the way the skin was already rubbed raw, red and abused with old bruises and fresh welts - a pattering mosaic of color and callouses. It was hedonistic, basic, and it felt like home.

He shook his head, clearing it, letting the fantasy swallow him.

It wasn't hard; he'd already rehearsed the beats between breaths. God knows she was the only one he wanted. The only want he could ever think of someday askin'. Maybe not in so many words, he doubted he could ever actually say it – say what he wanted –_ needed_. But that was the point. That's why it _had_ to be her, because she'd know, she'd understand, just like she always did.

He shuddered, safe, quickly finding his niche.

Because instead of four cold metal walls and a scratched up floor that smelled sickeningly like old vomit and rusty iron, he was somewhere else. A bedroom colored by soft pastels and warm browns and she was there, looking down at him in that way she does, giving everything and nothing away.

Her profile was unreadable, the soft chin, the sharp nose, the eyes wide and honest with their nearly invisible lashes, gorgeous and unearthly in her ass-kicker boots, khaki greens and a flowing, cream colored top.

His tongue peeked out underneath the gag, enjoying the contrast as it rasped across the underside of the rough, spit-soaked material. He watched her, waiting for a cue, waiting for her to say something, _anything_.

And for once the guilt of thinking of her like this - _using her_ – paled. Becoming distant and unimportant in the face of the _want-now-yes_ that was coursing down his limbs in visceral flashes of searing heat. _He needed this. _

This was just his mind's way of getting even, of making a fucked up situation right.

In a few hours from now he'd be heading up to some fucked up version of a chopping block. They'd ask him their questions. He'd cuss, tell 'em where to stick it, try and try to find some way to make a break for it. But the hard truth was, they probably wouldn't even untie him.

His prick twitched, jerking up against his zipper at the thought.

_Christ, he was twisted._

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter after this, stay tuned for the sexiness!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This little smutlet was inspired by the promotion pic for season five featuring Daryl gagged (and presumably tied up) – looking utterly and completely delish. And like maybe, my brain just kind of, well, went there. Set in early season five, while the gang is still locked down in Terminus. *Big thank you to _carylstolemyheart _on tumblr for being my sounding board for all things BDSM and for giving this a quick beta to ensure I was on track in terms of terms and descriptions. This is my first real foray into writing a bdsm fic, so I want to get things right.

**Warnings:** Adult language, adult content, sexual content, bondage, bdsm, light dom/sub undertones, rope tying, brief reference to a past threesome, mild power play, allusions to 'head space' or 'subspace', use of a cloth gag, dub-con, feeding, ice-play, sensation play, vague references to child abuse: emotional and physical.

**Unclip Pegasus' wings (and let him fly)**

_**Chapter Three**_

She walked a circle around him, heels echoing, sharp and crisp across the hardwood floor. A low-cut prowl as she paced a line through the evening shadows. He tried to tip his head back, not wanting to miss a second, but a sharp _tsk-tsk _made him snap back into place, pulse jumping – thumping in time as she made another pass.

"You remembered," she hummed, pleased when he kept his eyes straight ahead, letting his other senses follow her as her voice floated - easy and assuring just out of sight. "Good."

Her hands settled on his shoulders, a partial embrace from behind. He quivered, enjoying the openness, the vulnerability that flooded in – basking in the moment as it was immediately soothed, tempered by her presence. He breathed in, deep and full, once, twice and then again, heady and over-oxygenated as her tongue traced the shell of his ear.

"You're my good boy, aren't you?"

He arched up, nodding, mumbling through the gag, trying to get her attention back where he wanted it as a blurt of pre-cum dampened the tip. Spotting through his boxers as the tent of his erection peeked out from his undone jeans.

Her response was loving but firm. A gentle, no-nonsense tap on the nose that summed up matters better than the sharp edge of a whip or the first two knuckles of a punishing blow. That was what she'd taught him first, that there were other ways - _better ways_ - of getting her point across. Of teaching him what he needed.

_He wasn't in control, she was._

"You know the rules," she chided, smile wholesome and sure, a reprimand only in the loosest sense. "Not until I say."

He just squirmed in response, panting hotly – _waiting_.

* * *

She started off slow, gliding around him like a river carving its way through rock, trickling and eon-long as her fingers _scritch-scritched _across the base of his scalp. He shivered, welcoming each and every pass as the rasp of her nails excited the little hairs on the back of his neck, preceding the rash of goose bumps that rose up behind her.

"Let me do this for you," she murmured, soft and gentle and unassuming, like she wasn't aware of her own power, like she _didn't_ have him by the nape – her grip tight enough that his hips were already bucking their way to the threshold.

He thought about the ropes holding him together. About the soothing dryness of Carol's fingers trailing down his naked chest, unadorned save for the ropes. For the loops and knots that caught and pulled every time her fingers paused – lingering and tugging – if only slightly, as he sucked a desperate lung-full between his teeth.

He looked up, only to catch sight of her, waiting.

There was a soft scarf twisting between her fingers – blood red and darkly bright in the dim light. He shuddered, trying and failing to lick his lips, the action hopeful and unconscious as he watched her from under the thick fan of his lashes.

_Christ, he wanted to touch. Himself, her, it didn't matter. He was too greedy to wait. He wanted it all, right here, right now. And she knew it too. _That's why she'd doubled knotted the ropes. They'd learned that shit the hard way. _He liked the hurt, liked to push and press – liked to test her boundaries._

He nodded, giving her permission.

He knew better than to keep her waiting.

* * *

The distant slam of boot heels tripping over something echoed, dull and abrupt through the black. He frowned, the expression distant and uncertain. He took another breath, sucking it in deep, only this time he nearly choked, struggling to make sense of the rebound when Carol was there, right in front of him, the soft glow of the bedroom lights flickering welcomingly.

The realization was slow to permeate.

_The warehouse. Someone was here!_

His eyes fluttered open, panting through the gag, dick straining against his zipper as he hiked up in the seat, caught between action and inaction as his instincts unfurled, combating the desperate need for friction.

He stiffened. _Sunrise._ He remembered now. _They were comin' for him._ They were going to-

"Turn up the good, filter out the bad," she crooned, seeming to sense the thought just before it made tracks and ruined the moment. Highlighting in day-glow colors why she was so perfect, why this would have _never_ worked with anyone else. Why_ this_ was the reason he'd waited.

_Rehearse the way you heal._

Her hand returned to the back of his neck, calming and sure, reminding him where he was and that she would catch him if he fell. That she would always be there to-

* * *

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back until it was supported by the cradle of her breast. He could feel his body swaying into it, all but vibrating with the need to meet her halfway. But Carol just smiled, drawing up these little purrs of sound from the back of his throat every time she leaned in and thinned out the air, teasing.

Her lips firmed around the edges of rope that bound his hands together and his breath left him in a rush. The sensation of her firm little tongue laving across his knuckles almost unmanned him.

"You can tell me, you know. Tell me what you want. I'll give it you, everything, you know I will."

She was inside him, settling herself deep underneath his skin, becoming his foundations even as she ripped down the false ones. Reminding him, in ways he still couldn't bear to let himself get too invested in, who he_ truly_ belonged to.

"I know what you need. But you've gotta say it. Can you do that, Daryl? Can you do it for me?"

He nodded, the gag muting the whimper that rose up in the place of words – breath – thought. They were in tune now, a singular infinite instrument that each side knew intimately. A shot of warmth rose, twisting and stretching in the pit of his belly as she tugged on the gag, playful, promising. Someday the words might even leave his lips.

_God, he was hard. _Enough that the word itself was a fucking _understatement_ by now.

He pushed forward, adding to the symphony as the ropes strained – creaking and warm with friction. His song was desperation and desire. He'd never needed more than he did now. He'd never felt anything so raw, so _needy_. Everything was too much and not enough and _fuck- _

He wasn't built to handle this kind of shit. It was too deep. Too heavy.

_More._

Because as much as he wanted to run from it, to slam down every defense and curl away, life under the press – under the ropes - had never been more clear cut, more harsh and full and_ stuffed_ with feeling. It burned under his skin like a fucking brand, right and pure and overwhelming in the best and worst of ways.

He was going to go up like a fucking torch and take the entire god damned world with him.

All he needed was just a little bit more, a push, permission, something-

* * *

The clinking of a bowl sounded just out of his line of sight – heavy and light as he huffed impatiently through his nose. Her smile was sly, crafty and quick. Oh, and she knew it too.

"You thirsty, sweetie? You've been so good so far that I thought you needed a treat."

He felt the flicker of coolness in the air as she balanced an ice-cube between her thumb and forefinger. He cocked his head, open and willing. Curiosity and excitement churned in the pit of his belly. This was new. They hadn't tried this before.

"Would you like one?" she asked, tilting the bowl so he could see the three little cubes coasting around the lip, skimming wetly in their own sweat.

"I know the gag makes your mouth dry. And in this heat you need to stay hydrated," she hummed, setting the bowl off to the side and leaning forward. Her fingers, now ice-cold and slick, thumbed at the layer of sweat beading across his temples.

"Such a good boy, you'd never say anything about it, would you?"

He groaned, the sound muffled, enough that she wouldn't hold it against him. His prick twitched, pre-cum oozing from the tip, causing his boxers to stick and catch. But she kept him still, petting his thigh and following the ridge of his cock from balls to crown, nails scraping – _just so_ – along the damp fabric.

"You'd just sit here, just like you are now, all still and quiet for me, wouldn't you?"

He nodded, wriggling in his seat, pressing his cheek into the palm of her hand in a silent plead, unable to shake the feeling that now, more than ever, her touch was the only thing keeping him inside his skin.

* * *

He wasn't sure what caught his attention. If it was the sudden prickly feeling that stirred around the base of his spine – spearing across his nape when he realized that he was no longer alone. Or the uneven rush of awareness that trickled through the pale just before his instincts started _screaming_. But he became aware of it all the same.

He took a deep breath, and then another. Trying to hold onto the moment as she reached forward and rubbed the soothing chill across his lower lip. The rasp of his stubble smoothing across her thumb was all but a _visceral_ thing.

The soft _hush-hush_ of her boots swept across the filthy concrete floor, and like ripples in a pond, the scene fleshed out. Gaining layers and complexities as it spread.

_He knew that sound. _

_That walk._

The dissonance between realities wasn't jarring. Rather, it felt more like a progression, something his sub-conscious accepted automatically as fantasy shifted into reality and distantly, he became aware that something was happening.

That somehow, in spite of everything, she was here, _now_. Not ten meters from him.

Only, his dick didn't seem to get the memo.

She snuck in at a crouch, low and knife up as she made her way through the black, just like he'd taught her, adding layers to the thrill as she slunk in all quiet like. She was a fucking vision. Silent and self-assured, knife glinting like hope and his darkest desires personified. And, unless he was very much mistaken, apparently dead set on a rescue.

He choked on a breath, too busy admiring the sight. _She was porcelain on black, civil twilight, spring time rib-bones slowly knitting themselves back together. She was his, his-_

He caught the exact moment when she laid eyes on him, finally making sense of his huddled shape after so much time sneaking around in the gloom. Her eyes lit up – as only those cool baby blues could - all stupidly expressive and far too wide, making a beeline for him as the arm holding the knife deflated.

Her hand stroked across his cheek just above the gag. He blinked, absorbing the warmth. He was uncertain of how much time had passed when he opened his eyes and found her kneeling in front of him, all close and shit, lips moving like she was aimin' to say something only nothin' reached his ears.

But by that point he was already a goner anyway.

All he knew was that it took more than it probably should have _not_ to lean into her. Not to duck his head and bury it into her chest, not to soak her in, her touch, her sounds, her smell, her_ everything_. He wanted it all, every inch of that soft, lilting reassurance as she clucked and hummed, slicing through the bones – no – the _bonds_ that held his skin together and shoring him up with her instead.

And really, he was so keyed up, that thought was all it took.

His whine – a mess of high pitches and throaty undertones - was absorbed by the gag as every muscle in his body went on point. His spine arced, all but seeing stars as the pleasure coiled.

_Jesus fucking Christ on a-_

The wad of fabric creaked, snapping back as his canines bit clear through.

* * *

He came in his fucking pants before she could finish with the first length of rope.

And when he came down from his high, eventually finding himself half-untied and in her arms, he forgot, at least for a moment, of the wet soaking into his briefs and the over-sensitivity of his dick as it jumped and twitched at every other brush. Instead, his used his free arm to crush her to his chest, chanting her name like a mantra.

They stayed that way for hours, minutes, maybe just seconds before the sound of an alarm – ill-timed and tacky - permeated through the dark.

And just like that, they were running again.

* * *

They spent the next few months on the road, placeless – wandering. There was no time to dwell on it, no time to tip-toe around the issue or figure out just how much she knew. At the time he figured she hadn't understood. That she'd just assumed his mewling and wriggling had been discomfort or desperation. Him trying to talk her ear off through the gag or whatever.

And as the weeks turned into months he told himself that was a good thing. That it was for the best. That he didn't need it. That he could be happy without it – content – just so long as he had her.

It wasn't until they found a place, an old military style bunker up in the middle of nowhere and got settled, that he was proven wrong on all counts. Because one day, after a two day long hunt that had yielded a grand total of fuck-all, he found a nondescript, brown paper bag tucked neatly under his pillow.

The note attached was written in a quick, sweetly cursive script, like she'd been in a hurry when she'd ghosted down the dank concrete hall and into the little cubby-hole he'd claimed as his own.

The words were enough to make him catch his breath as he thumbed the edges, smoothing his fingers down the coil of rope – a smooth almost silky-satin like material – in equal parts wonder and trepidation.

"Whenever you're ready." – Carol.

Then again, maybe she'd understood perfectly after all.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. This story is now complete! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Thank you for indulging my flighty little whims of sexyness!


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